The heavy oak doors of the council chamber were sealed shut, shutting out the clamor of morning in King's Landing.
Inside, deep crimson tapestries cast heavy shadows across the stone walls. The massive long table, polished to a mirror-like sheen, reflected the pale shafts of light streaming through the high windows of the vaulted ceiling.
Great Lord Tywin Lannister sat at the head of the table, his back straight, posture unbending. His face was expressionless, but his pale green eyes moved slowly down the line of courtiers on either side.
Every man who met his gaze felt a chill crawl up his spine, as if the blood-soaked chaos in the Great Hall the day before were still hanging in the air.
"Speak, my lords."
Tywin's voice was calm and low. "The King has been assassinated. I wish to hear your counsel."
Silence.
At last, Tywin's gaze fixed on the man at the far end of the table—ashen-faced, trembling.
"Lord Tyrell. Your opinion."
"Ah, I... I…"
Mace Tyrell jolted as if struck. He glanced around, meeting the uncertain looks of the others. The last trace of color drained from his cheeks.
The image of yesterday's slaughter flooded his mind—the screaming, the blood, the sight of the King's death. He cursed himself bitterly. Why hadn't he left with Renly when he had the chance?
When Renly fled King's Landing, he had taken only his retainers and the Tyrells' two sons, Loras and Garlan. Robert, perhaps in gratitude for House Tyrell's past loyalty to the Iron Throne, had spared Mace himself.
Mace had even felt a flicker of relief at his fortune. But now, he could only wish he were dead.
"Lord Tyrell," Cersei said sharply, her voice muffled beneath a thin silk veil that hid all but her eyes—cold, venomous, and full of warning. "I advise you to think carefully before you speak."
Since the night Robert's sword had cut her face, Pycelle had treated the wound. The scar was shallow—just a faint rose-colored mark—but to Cersei, it might as well have been a brand. Her vanity could not bear it; she had covered her face ever since.
Mace shuddered, the threat in her voice choking him.
"I... I think... it was... Lord Eddard!" he stammered. "Yes—him! He bore a grudge! When His Grace visited him in the dungeons... he took the chance to kill him!"
His words tumbled out in panic, throwing all blame upon the imprisoned Eddard Stark.
Tywin's cold gaze slid past him to Maester Pycelle, who sat slumped in his chair, trembling. "Maester Pycelle. Your view?"
The old maester shot to his feet as though jabbed with a needle. "Ah—Great Lord! I... I fully agree with Lord Tyrell's most insightful judgment! Eddard Stark... wolf-hearted and treacherous... it was he who committed this foul act of regicide!"
"Varys." Tywin's voice was level, unreadable.
The Master of Whisperers bowed slightly, his voice smooth as silk laced with honey. "Great Lord, the wisdom of Lord Tyrell and Maester Pycelle is truly admirable. The truth could not be clearer. Lord Eddard Stark... alas, has chosen the path of rebellion. I concur entirely with their assessment."
"Lord Baelish." Tywin's gaze turned to Littlefinger.
Petyr Baelish smiled, perfectly poised. "My lord, in the face of such plain evidence, any alternative theory would be disloyal to the realm. I agree completely. Eddard Stark is the regicide—and his motive is evident. He sought to restore the Targaryen dynasty and place Rhaegar's son upon the throne."
Tywin gave a slight nod, apparently satisfied with this unanimous verdict.
His sharp eyes drifted briefly over Cersei and Jaime before narrowing as he spoke.
"So be it. Pycelle, send ravens at once in the name of the Small Council to all the noble houses of the Seven Kingdoms. Proclaim that Eddard Stark, imprisoned for treason, harbored resentment and—taking advantage of King Robert Baratheon's merciful visit—bribed certain guards and foully murdered His Grace. Afterward, he conspired with traitors to seize the Red Keep and plotted to destroy the royal family. I, Tywin Lannister, acting under the secret authority of the Crown, came to King's Landing to end Eddard Stark's crimes."
He paused briefly, then continued, his tone colder still.
"Furthermore, the letter must emphasize that all prior correspondence written in the King's voice defaming Her Grace the Queen and Ser Jaime Lannister was forged by Eddard Stark. His intent was to sow division within the royal household, conceal his harboring of rebels from the former regime, and fabricate justification for his act of kinslaying."
"Lastly, send word to all the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms that King Robert's heir, Joffrey Baratheon, will soon hold his coronation. The great lords are expected to come to King's Landing to attend the celebration."
Pycelle bobbed his head eagerly. "Yes, yes, my lord! I shall see to it at once!"
Tywin's gaze shifted back to the still-shaken Mace Tyrell, the weight in his stare growing heavier. "And you, Lord Mace."
Mace's throat tightened. "Yes, my lord... your command?"
"As Lord of Highgarden, you will write to your seat personally. Convey my warmest regards to Lady Olenna and your family, and extend an invitation for them to attend the coronation in King's Landing—and remain for a time. Her Grace the Queen would surely appreciate the company of noble ladies to ease her solitude."
A chill surged through Mace Tyrell from heel to crown.
An invitation? No—this was bait.
Now that Renly and House Tyrell's scheme to replace the Queen had been exposed, the Lannisters' vengeance had begun.
And he, Mace, was to be the hostage left behind in King's Landing.
His heavy frame trembled uncontrollably, face pale as chalk. Only a strangled voice escaped him: "Yes... yes, Lord Tywin... I... I shall write at once..."
All that remained in his heart was fear—and bitter regret.
Tywin, satisfied, turned to Varys. "Varys, I want your little birds to fly across every corner of the Seven Kingdoms. Watch the movements of every great house closely—especially Storm's End, Dragonstone, Winterfell, and... Highgarden. Any sign of unrest, any whisper of rebellion that could endanger the realm's stability—report it to me immediately."
"By your command, my lord."
Varys bowed deeply. "My little birds will weave for you a web of whispers spanning all the Seven Kingdoms."
Jaime frowned, unable to stay silent. "Father, the situation remains unstable. Shouldn't you remain in King's Landing to keep order?"
He cast a brief glance at Cersei, concern flickering in his eyes.
Tywin let out a cold, derisive breath. "Stay put? The Young Wolf in the North has already sounded the call to war at Winterfell, sharpening his claws. His riders may march south at any moment. The Tullys still defy us in the Riverlands. I must go to the front myself and crush these threats before they grow."
Jaime straightened. "Then I ask to go with you, to lead your armies."
Tywin's eyes locked on him, hard and unyielding. "You will go—but not to the same front. I have another task for you."
Cersei's heart sank like a stone.
If Jaime left, who would protect her? Who would soothe her pain—on her face and in her heart?
She broke in, her voice edged with panic. "And what of King's Landing? What if those with treachery in their hearts strike at me and the children while you and Jaime are gone?"
...
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